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Dormia a maior parte do dia. Ocasionalmente acordando para beber ou comer algo. Na verdade, era sempre a mesma coisa. Ele comia sempre a mesma coisa. Espreguiçava-se, mas com elegância. Caminhava até a cozinha lenta e silenciosamente.  Tomava então um gole, comia um pouco e voltava a dormir. Às vezes na cama, às vezes na sala de estar, no sofá. Ia para lá, para a sala, quando desejava só um cochilo,  quando o barulho da digitação dela não incomodava seu sono.
 
De tempos em tempos, ela o assustava um pouco, ao apoiar o copo na mesa de vidro com mais força, ao empurrar uma cadeira ou deixar cair uma caneta no chão. Ele olhava para ela, com seus grandes e brilhantes olhos verdes, e fixava ali o olhar. Poucos minutos depois, voltava a dormir. Passava os dias assim, confinado, praticamente estático. Quando acordado, ou estava comendo, ou olhando, ora para ela, ora através da janela. Raramente emitia som. A vida dela, por outro lado, era repleta de idas e vindas, de altos e baixos, diferentes interesses e possibilidades, angústia e alegria, sonhos e frustrações. Não tinham nada em comum, mas ela voltava para ele, todos os dias. Ele lhe fazia companhia.

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